


An Abridged Sexual History of Nick Grimshaw: A Love Story

by mrsronweasley



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-17 23:58:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsronweasley/pseuds/mrsronweasley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick considered himself a bit of a late bloomer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Abridged Sexual History of Nick Grimshaw: A Love Story

**Author's Note:**

> Totally and completely made up. NONE OF THIS IS TRUE. A lot of it is conjecture because: fanfiction. ALL DISCLAIMERS APPLY, ETC, ETC.
> 
> With huge, HUGE thanks to my darling beta Brooklinegirl, to Mistresscurvy for being the BEST cheerleader throughout this whole thing, and to Ladyfoxxx & Magog83 for their uber-speedy Brit-picks - thanks for answering the call, ladies! <3 (Any remaining mistakes are purely my own.)
> 
> I just really love Nick Grimshaw, okay. And I really, really love Nick Grimshaw with Harry Styles. The end.

**One**

Nick considered himself a bit of a late bloomer. 

His first wank came before his first kiss, hidden in the dark depths of the changing rooms after school, with Michael-the-footballer. Nick was out, because really, no closet could keep him in; Michael was in gay Narnia. But he had a pretty dick, and a tight grip, and after he came, he barely waited for Nick to catch up before doing up his trousers without a single glance backwards as he legged it out of there. 

Nick chewed on his lip, methodically cleaned himself up, and trudged home wondering if he was technically still a virgin or what.

He was sixteen.

**Two**

First kiss – Canal Street. More like Banal Street, but he didn't care then that he was a cliché – again. He never found out the bloke's name, but he was _such_ a nice kisser. Nick had nothing to compare it to, but his body responded to it in a way he hadn't actually expected. Not even his best wanking sessions reduced his knees to jelly like this, and he'd got quite good at learning what he liked over the years. No, this lad was everything Nick loved: tall, slim, with pretty eyes, and a prettier mouth, and best of all, he looked at Nick like Nick was worth looking at.

Nick, with his pudgy middle and spaghetti arms, his hair that had no clue where to land, and his weird face. He pinned Nick up against the wall outside the club and ground up against him and kissed him hard and wet and hot. Nick could barely keep up. His skin was on fire. 

When the bloke pulled away from him and, grinning, led Nick by the hand down the street and to his house, Nick could _not_ believe his luck. 

"What'd you like?" he asked Nick once he had him on his bed – his _bed_ , that smelled of bloke and stale sheets and aftershave. Nick could barely remember his own phone number. 

"What'd you _do_?" he managed to ask in a way that he hoped suggested he had ideas of his own. He liked the way he'd sounded, though – confident and assertive – and tried his luck. "Blowjob? You up for it?"

The bloke just grinned at him again and slid down the bed. "Always," he said, and produced – magicked, really – a condom from the depths of his bed. Nick cradled the lad's head the entire time, his other hand fisted in his own mouth to keep the noises in. 

He gave it his messy best whilst reciprocating, loving the weight of the fat cock in his mouth, the way it stretched him out and made him aware of every single part of his body in a way he'd never been before. 

_This is my hand on his dick; this is his dick on my tongue; this is my hair in his fist. This is me, sucking a bloke's cock_. He was drunk on sex.

 _Now_ he was no longer a virgin.

And he was just getting started.

**Three**

Henry. Henry was lovely. 

London was a huge overwhelming sprawling mess, and Nick was loving every moment of being part of the throng. Their flat was tiny, but theirs – not his parents', nor his uni flatmates' – _theirs_. It was a mess, because when you combined two blokes and all of their ambitions, there was only room for chaos.

They weren't exclusive. Hell, they were not even really together. They just _were_. Whenever they'd stumble home from a club at two in the morning by themselves, twatted and horny, they'd find themselves on Henry's bed, rubbing one out, or giving each other simultaneous and dirty handjobs.

Every now and then, lovely Henry would suck Nick's dick. 

They did try going on a date once. It was successful – in that way where they both pulled, and not each other – and it became clear that friendly sex beat romance any day with them.

That was the night Nick had met Neal.

Well, he'd been due for a broken heart, really.

**Four**

"This is it," Nick said nervously, allowing Neal into the inner sanctum of the BBC after dark. 

"Cool," Neal said, looking genuinely thrilled, and allowed Nick to drag him down the corridor to where Nick filmed with Annie. He still wasn't used to being allowed inside here, really. The MTV gig had been cool, but not nearly the same as being part of the gigantic BBC world, where radio met television met media in a way that filled him with childlike glee. _And_ he got paid for it.

Nick fucked Neal up against the wall. Crushing his chest up against Neal's clothed back, he bracketed his arms around Neal's shoulder and fucked him hard and fast, Neal's jeans trapped between their thighs. He could not get a single deep breath in, and he heard himself making noises he would have been embarrassed about in any other situation, but Neal was writhing against him, his firm arse feeling so good against Nick's hips, so _good_ around his dick. Nick left mouth-shaped bruises on the back of Neal's neck, bruises he hoped would never heal, would stay on Neal's skin forever.

"Fuck," he said, then, "Wanna fuck you till we die," and Neal's hips twitched and he was coming, spunking right onto the BBC wall. Nick laughed, breathless and stupid, and clung to Neal's body as he came, feeling like he'd never stop. 

"God, d'you know?" he said to Pix a couple of weeks later over piña coladas at one in the morning. "I think I might be in love with him?"

"Ooohh, are you really?" Her eyes lit up. "D'you think he feels the same?"

Nick smiled around his straw, giddy and booze-confident. Just last night, Neal had woken him up with a kiss, pulling Nick right out of his sleep and into his body, allowing Nick to fuck him slow, languid, their hands gripping each other's over Neal's head. "He might do, yeah," he giggled now.

"So, how come you're with me and not professing your love to him right now?" Pix asked, slapping his arm, and Nick giggled again, play-shoving her away. 

"I dunno, we're not _always_ together, you know? I'm having girlfriend time, aren't I." 

"Well, you should phone him," Pix said confidently, slurping at her drink. "Phone him and tell him you love him."

Nick knew better, he really did, but the piña coladas were stronger than his smarts. Falling over each other and laughing, they managed to get Nick's phone to cooperate.

"Hey, babes," Nick said, watching Pix watching him the entire time. "Is now a good time, have you got a minute?"

"Oh, uh, sure," Neal said, his voice sounding a bit crackly. "Sorry, can't hear you well, but what's going on?"

Nick's heart beat so very, very fast, and he gripped Pixie's hand. "Oh, just – I dunno, wanted to hear your voice, I guess, and, like –" He paused, taking a deep sip of his drink. "Just wanted to say I think I love you?"

Everything stopped as he waited – Pix's huge gaze on him, his fingers gripped in her hand, his very lungs. Everything took on a monumental significance, and he watched the bracelets circling his wrist as he waited. 

He loved someone! He loved someone. He really _did_ , didn't he. 

A massive pause filled the air. 

Nick hated, _hated_ massive pauses.

"Oh," Neal said finally, some sort of house music thumping behind him. The DJ was making all the wrong choices wherever he was. "Uh, hey, let's – let's chat when we're together, not over the phone, yeah?"

"Yeah," Nick agreed automatically, then his brain caught up with his ears. "Yeah, all right," he added and immediately hung up.

Pix watched him, frozen. Their hands were really sweaty together. 

"That," Nick said, his heart beating wildly in his chest, every single booze-soaked organ in his body sinking down to his toes, "might have been a mistake."

"Oh, _babes_ ," Pix breathed. "I'm sure it's nothing, he was just surprised. It was a bit out of the blue, right? Totally my fault."

Nick nodded, sipping his drink automatically, his stupidity hitting him all at once. "Yeah, sure. 'Course. Right. Maybe he'll believe I was just drunk and talking nonsense?"

You _twat_ , he thought. You utter _twat_.

"Sorry, Nick," Neal said to him the next day. They were sat across from each other on Nick's sofa, which had suddenly grown into a mile-wide expanse of joy-sucking black hole, and Nick's head was doing him in. 

Rum. Rum was to blame for _all_ of this. And maybe Pixie. Maybe just the tiniest bit.

His tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth no matter how much water he'd downed, and he'd caught the sight of his own face in the mirror earlier, so he knew exactly what Neal was seeing at that moment. A twenty four-year old who looked forty if he looked a day, bags under his eyes, hair mental, face on sideways, slowly sweating yesterday's booze into his own second-hand furniture.

No wonder Neal was looking at him with such pity. Nick wanted to be sick all over him. 

"I just think we're moving too fast, you know…" Neal was saying. "We've barely been exclusive, really," Neal said through the thudding in Nick's head, and what?

"What?" he rasped.

Neal bit his pretty full lip, and Nick ran for the loo to be sick in the toilet. 

So, yeah. Neal hadn't really worked out, love-wise.

 **Five**

Nick decided to co-opt being a slut. Henry and Aimee teased him mercilessly, but what the hell, he was young, he was fit, he was famous enough to use it to pull. 

He pulled a _lot_. 

Thursday through Saturday, he lived and breathed boys. Tall boys, short boys, loud boys, shy boys. Boys who loved to drink and give messy handjobs in his DJ booth, boys who gave lazy blowjobs in bathrooms, boys who would last about two seconds flat and leave him with blue balls, boys who would let him take them home and fuck them. Boys who'd take _him_ home and fuck him. 

"You are, like, the biggest slag I know," Henry informed him, catching Nick looking around the club. "Like, the _biggest_? D'you know that?"

"Are you slut-shaming me, Mr. Holland?" Nick asked, turning back to Henry and giving him a toothy grin. "I'll have you know, I am a healthy lad with a healthy sexual appetite, and I _always_ use protection."

"You," Henry pointed at him with his drink, "are the worst, basically."

"Oh, you _love_ it," Nick replied, blowing him a kiss and taking another sip of his Corona. "You're just jealous of my powers of persuasion."

Henry laughed and blew him a kiss back, like a blessing to be naughty. 

Nick was very, _very_ naughty. 

It wasn't as though he was indiscriminant, either. He was just going with the flow. 

If that flow happened to land him between two up-and-coming (and _up_ ; and _coming_ ) models, he was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He did so many things to their mouths – and chests, and arses, and his own wrists, tied to a bedframe, fucked absolutely silly. Things spun and spun, and more than anything, Nick loved kicking pretty boys out of his flat the following morning, sending them home happy, tired, and uncomplicatedly shagged.

When he hit twenty five, he looked around himself at a club and the only thing he could think to say was, "How can I be bored of _shagging_?" 

Aimee, Henry, Pix, and Alexa all watched him with various expressions of _oy_ written on their faces. 

Henry reached out and took Nick's hand that wasn't clutching a drink into one of his own. "Babes. You've pretty much shagged every pretty boy in London, _including myself._ I am fairly certain _they're_ tired of shagging _you_. Be a monk for a month. Just slow yourself down, yeah?"

Nick sighed and slurped his drink. Actually, getting enough sleep and focusing on what he loved most – work, friends, family – didn't sound like such a bad lifestyle choice.

When the next bloke sauntered up to him wearing a tight vest and tighter jeans, Nick waved him off with a sad, grown-up sort of smile. 

"God be with you, young man," he intoned after him, and Aimee nearly fell off her seat laughing.

Nick grinned at them and settled in for a round of celebratory sexless drinks. 

**Six**

Jonny had been a shock. A shock of blond hair, American accent, and the sort of raw talent Nick had become a DJ to support, really. Given relatively free rein over his nighttime show, he plugged The Drums a little shamelessly, and when it came time to meet the band, that shock of blond hair was like a bloody siren song.

After the interview, the band joined Nick and his mates out on the town. The bar was loud and the booze was flowing, and Nick soaked it all in.

While Jacob and Adam mingled with the twatted crowd, Nick couldn't help keeping track of how many times Jonny had left Nick's side (exactly once), as well as how aware he was of every single time Jonny leaned into him to make a comment, or thank him for taking them out (countless). Every time he did, Nick could feel how hot he was. In the dark bar, he could just make out the deep alcohol-fueled blush on Jonny's pale skin.

Nick couldn't stop smiling at him over his drink.

Aimee, being Aimee, engaged Jonny in a long – and rather loud – conversation about the East Coast, and Nick was even all right with being unable to participate, because they both looked at him as much as they looked at each other.

Really, it was almost a contest between him and Aimee as to who was going to pull this adorable singer from the adorable American hipster band first. Aimee's tits were in top form, really, but Nick had a feeling it was no contest. 

He had to piss, but he couldn't bring himself to stand up and move away from Jonny's side. Every time Aimee said something unintelligible, Jonny's entire frame would sway into Nick's side as he said, "Huh?" and their thighs would press up against each other, a little sweaty and hot.

Finally, Nick made himself run for the loo. It wouldn't do to wee on the object of your prowl. When he returned – only _slightly_ disappointed that Jonny hadn't followed him in, to be honest – Aimee was gone.

"Drinks," Jonny explained, lifting his empty pint, and Nick just smiled at him. Jonny smiled back.

Nick plopped down next to him and, feeling brave, swung his leg over so he was straddling the bench, facing Jonny's side. "Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked like a twat, ruining his own moves.

Jonny, however, only smiled back and propped his chin on his hand, looking a little blurry to Nick. "Yeah. It's been fun. Thanks for, like, having us on your show, means a lot." 

Nick shrugged. "Of course. I love your stuff, I'll always play it."

Jonny looked absolutely delighted as he hung his head, grinning from under his eyelashes. "Thanks, dude. I mean, the London music scene is kind of insane."

"That it is," Nick agreed, then play-punched him on the shoulder, like he was the laddiest lad to ever lad. God, was he _nervous_? "But you stick with us, you'll be all right. You're here for a while, aren't you? Touring the ol' Britain?" Nick had reverted to being his father, Jesus Christ.

Jonny took just a second too long to reply. Nick's gaze froze on Jonny watching him. _This is it_ , he thought, but even the inevitability of it did nothing to stopper the shock that spilled out of him when Jonny leaned in, paused for just a moment, catching Nick's eye, and kissed him. 

All the noise turned white. Nick instantly fell into the kiss, relief flowing through his veins, only to be replaced by hot need the very next moment. He molded himself to Jonny's side, bringing his hands up to his shoulders. Oh. Jonny was a moaner. Nick _loved_ moaners. 

They didn't wait for Aimee to come back. Drunk and giggling, Nick threw some money on the table and grabbed Jonny's hand, leading him out of the bar. He didn't even care if the paparazzi snapped any pictures of them whilst looking for bigger game. 

No one would care, it was just a DJ and an indie rocker from America. 

They poured themselves into a taxi and didn't let go of each other until the driver threw them out.

*

"So, are you _dating_ him?" Aimee asked a week later, after Nick had had a chance to come up for air in the whirlwind of his sudden onset romance. 

To be perfectly honest, he had _barely_ come up for air, he just managed to actually answer his phone after Aimee's texts got increasingly lewd and vicious.

He wove his fingers through Jonny's and kissed each one softly, watching him, as he said, "I might be, yeah."

"He's right there with you, isn't he." Even over the phone, Nick could tell when her eyes got suspicious and squinty. 

He laughed. "Yeah, wanna have a chat? Here, Jonny, it's Aimee."

Jonny blushed - _blushed_ \- but took Nick's phone obediently, settling back against Nick's chest. "Hi, Aimee," he intoned.

Nick leaned in and tried to get the conversation from both ends. Aimee was never quiet, anyway. 

" _You're both assholes, why would you not tell me?_ " 

Nick had been wise, handing the phone over to Jonny, because he wasn't the one getting all the abuse now. He laughed as silently as he could manage.

"Sorry, we were too busy fucking," Jonny said, and Nick guffawed at that, missing whatever Aimee had said in response. "Sure, can you bring us coffee? Nick refuses to give me anything but tea and wine." Jonny listened for a moment. "Not at the same time, no. He's not a _monster_." 

Nick stopped trying to listen to Aimee's lilting through the phone in favour of laughing like a lunatic, and after Jonny managed to get his best friend off the phone, Nick rolled them over and settled himself comfortably between Jonny's legs.

"Thanks for taking that bullet," he smiled down at him. "You deserve a medal or something."

"How about a blowjob?" Jonny asked, taking the cue that Nick had so graciously offered him, and rolled his hard-on against Nick's.

Nick bit his lip and slipped down with a grin. Morning blowjobs beat morning coffee _any_ day of the week.

*

Their time together was perfect – fun and stupid and hot and broken apart by that beast of an inevitability, the great Atlantic Ocean. 

After Jonny's band was finished touring in the UK, finding time to go on dates or fuck around became, well, impossible. There was that one time Nick flew out to America for work and Jonny showed him his New York, but – but.

He wasn't in America for long. And neither one of them was the moving-continents kind, really. 

Nick had a cry on the plane, because it might have been the smart decision, but it wasn't a decision he liked making. He wished Jonny'd turned out to be a bastard or a boring slob or any one of the nightmares Nick had come to expect from relationships, but no. He'd been lovely. Breaking up fucking gutted Nick.

He allowed himself that wallow, though. He closed his eyes, tilted his face away from his seatmate's, and remembered this one particular night. 

The three of them – Nick, Jonny, Aimee – had gone to Brighton for the weekend, and got absolutely twatted. They plodded their way through The Lanes en route to their hotel after clubbing, but instead of winding up at the hotel, had somehow managed to circle back and end up right on the bloody beach. He still wasn't sure if it had been the booze or the pot that did it, but whatever it had been, it had been _amazing_. 

They crashed through the waves and screamed and there was nobody around to stop them, so they just kept on running in and out of the water, their shoes soaked through beyond repair, wet clothes plastered to their bodies, the wind freezing them in place, but they didn't care. 

And then Jonny grabbed Nick round the waist and told him that he loved him. Just like that.

Nick didn't panic, and he didn't say it back. It was just enough for both of them to feel like they could be, _could_ be in love, and they snogged and groped until Aimee ran into them and they all crashed down onto the rocks like a flailing octopus. 

Stupid, really, but that night was Nick's to keep, and he still rotated The Drums' records on his show, and he still sent Jonny stupid pictures now and then, and occasionally, Jonny would phone him and make him laugh.

And that was all right. It was. It was all right.

 **Seven**

It was fast and booze-fueled with Harry. Most of Nick's shags began that way, but never ones that meant anything. This shouldn't have – but it did.

Harry's smile was to blame for all of it. His smile, and Nick's stupid heart, which had turned out so easy for Harry. 

One night, Harry told the cabbie Nick's address, like he'd done plenty of times before, and it hadn't ever meant anything more than that he was tired and Nick's place was closer. Nick felt his stomach fluttering at the idea of waking up with Harry in his flat, fucking around while putting on tea, maybe watching the telly, walking Thurston, but that was Nick. It wasn't Harry.

Until Nick watched Harry shut Nick's door with a deliberate quality that could have been blamed on alcohol, but Nick knew him better than that. Harry wouldn't meet his eyes. He just took a deep breath (like, deep; like, Nick could practically see his lungs fill with air), reached out, and fisted Nick's t-shirt. 

It felt like the moment stretched into infinity, right along with Nick's shirt, until Nick's gut kicked and, without thought, he broached one step into Harry's space, took his face between his hands, and kissed him. _Finally,_ not a small part of his brain helpfully supplied.

It wasn't until they were stumbling down the hall and through the lounge into his bedroom that he even thought, _what am I doing?_ He couldn't even answer his own question. Not while Harry was all over him, long limbs attempting to climb Nick, all of Harry touching all of _him_ \- there was simply no room for thought. No room at all.

Nick was in sensation overload. God, he was crazy about him. Completely bloody gone for him, this stupid popstar and his stupid stories and his stupid, average face. 

They fucked in Nick's bedroom – frantic, desperate shagging, the kind where you couldn't really tell where you ended and your partner began; could barely even ask what they wanted. All Nick knew was that Harry touching him, biting his shoulder as he wanked them both off, was undoing Nick with every single breathy moan. His scent peeled Nick right open, until he was nothing but boneless flesh and spunk, and was good for nothing but being the means to Harry's end. Harry's mouth, stealing breath and thought, was certainly the means to his. 

It took him so long to come down from it, he was nearly asleep by the time his heart stopped racing. 

When Nick woke up, he woke up alone.

They never talked about it before Harry left on tour. It wasn't in Harry's nature to be cruel, Nick knew that. But he also knew the endgame, and the endgame was that it had been a mistake on both their parts, and Harry was just attempting to let them breathe it out and let it recede in the rearview mirror.

The only person Nick had told was Aimee, and Aimee got him drunk. Again.

 **Eight**

Of course, Nick hadn't planned on shagging one of his Sweat the Small Stuff contestants. It was just that when Matt walked into the room, all cocky stride, lanky frame, and cute face, the idea just popped into Nick's head. It actually felt weird that it hadn't occurred to him before, to be honest.

"Hiya, Grimmy," Matt smiled and shook his hand in such a weirdly blokey manner that Nick all but flicked his wrist at him. Honestly, as if he couldn't tell from a mile away Matt was gay as a daisy.

Nick gave him a wide sweet smile, and they were off. Nick wasn't sure which part he enjoyed the most: watching Matt, or watching Matt watching him right back. 

He spent the entire afternoon with a bounce in his step and in his quiff, feeling that special anticipation where you knew that the day could really lead you somewhere good, you just had to nudge it there.

He _definitely_ planned on nudging it there.

He was a free man, after all. He had nothing telling him he couldn't just take someone home and fuck him silly, nothing at all. 

It was during a break in filming, when Nick was returning from the loo, that Matt intercepted him. 

"You next?" Nick asked, trying for a breezy pass in the hallway. He was a bit on edge: Max from the bloody Wanted kept forcing Nick to fantasise about punching him in the face. Nick thought of himself as pretty easy-going, if a bit of a drama queen, but the buttons Max was pushing in between takes were all designed to make a bloke fly at him fist-first.

Matt shrugged, pausing his own step until he was right in front of Nick and Nick had nowhere to go. Nick got butterflies in his belly, which was a lovely feeling that he'd sort of missed.

"You up for a night out after this?" Matt asked, nodding back towards the studio. 

It was strange, Nick thought, having to look up at someone for a change. He thought, fuck it. He thought, I'm doing this. "A night out or a night _in_?" he asked, pitching his voice lower.

Matt's gaze on him sharpened, while his smile widened. "Oh, cocky, aren't you?"

Nick gave him a beatific smile and shrugged.

"Yes," Matt said, lowering his own voice and inching ever-so-much closer to Nick. "Wanna take me home tonight? Could be a laugh."

Nick grabbed the hem of Matt's shirt and had a quick look-around before stepping right into Matt's space. "Sounds like a good time," he said. Then he grinned.

When Nick took him home, they had a few whiskey sours, because Nick had all the ingredients, and tumbled into bed quite tipsy. He hadn't changed his sheets for a while, but Matt didn't appear to notice, which Nick appreciated. Puppy had yipped sadly as he shut the door on her, but nobody wanted a surprise dog near their privates – it was only polite.

Matt was a lot of fun. He didn't tease, but he wasn't Mr Serious Business Sex, either. They rolled around Nick's bed, using their hands at first, then he let Matt blow him for a while. Then he returned the favour. It was uncomplicated, and it was easy, and Nick found himself mentally sifting through his Sunday to-do list whilst Matt kissed him. 

He felt so guilty, he blew him again for good measure.

He drove him home, too, and kissed him good night. Again – it was only polite.

 **Seven**

Harry showed up on Nick's doorstep with nary a warning. All Nick got for a heads up was a text, saying _you home?_. He considered turning all the lights off and playing dead, but then he realised that was beneath even _him_. 

Instead, he put on proper trousers as a concession – though a concession to what, he wasn't sure. Perhaps his dignity – seeing Harry for the first time since their shag in just his pants would probably have been a poor idea all around.

Ten seconds later, his doorbell was ringing, and Puppy was barking and running at the door. Nick tried to shove her away with his foot as he followed and opened the door, but she wriggled free and it was only due to Harry's shockingly quick response that she didn't get out. 

When Harry stood up from his crouch, arms full of Puppy, Nick reached out automatically and took her from him. She was barking, her tail wagging every which way, but Nick barely noticed it, really, because Harry was watching him from less than a foot away.

He'd got so tan, it was ridiculous. Really, it was like he'd given up his homeland or summat, it was unnatural. He'd filled out, too – something about the shoulders, maybe. He was watching Nick silently from under his ever-present beanie, and Nick could say nothing to break the tension, for once. He really was out of words. He hadn't prepared himself for this at all, he had no defences – apart from Puppy, still struggling to get out of his arms and whacking him with her tail every once in a while.

"Can I – can I come in?" Harry finally asked, and Nick moved away without a word, letting Harry walk in and shut the door behind him.

Nick was reminded of the last time that had happened. He pressed Puppy closer to his chest, subsiding her movements, and took another step back, bracing himself.

"How've you been?" he asked. It was a last-ditch effort to pretend like everything was normal, and Harry was just popping by for a friendly chat after months of total radio silence. It maybe wasn't even all that untrue. He'd been so long without Harry's constant presence, Nick had grown unaccustomed to being able to tell his thoughts just by looking at him. 

"Nick," is all Harry said in response, and sagged against the door. 

So, not just a chat, then. Nick wasn't sure if the small shudder that went through him was one of relief or fear. Reliefear. Most likely.

He found himself nodding and finally releasing Puppy. She scuttled back and forth between them. She'd never met Harry before, and Nick wondered if her first instinct of running straight into his arms hadn't been a pet's manifestation of her human's desire. Oh, God. He was _pathetic_. 

"She's really cute," Harry said, voice low. "I've been seeing all the pictures."

Of course. Him, and over one million other sad souls out there. "Thanks," Nick shrugged. "She's destroyed half my belongings."

When Harry smiled at him, Nick could never resist answering it. God, he was tired of pretending.

"Come into the lounge or something," he sighed, dropping his smile, and walked away. He should make tea – in fact, he'd had all the makings of it ready in the kitchen when Harry had texted – but it just felt like delaying the inevitable.

Still, his mother's voice nagged at him. It was quite annoying. "Do you want tea?" he asked as Harry trailed after him and Puppy. 

Harry cleared his throat. "Actually, do you have a beer or something?"

Nick _always_ had beer, and Harry knew that, of course. "Sure. I'll grab us two, you go on in."

He knew that if he hadn't told Harry to wait for him in the lounge, he'd have followed Nick straight into the kitchen. Nick took a moment to rest his head against the fridge and try to get his brain back online. In the months they'd not spoken, he'd missed Harry like an ache. He'd also not known when he would see him again. In most of his self-pitying imaginings of this meeting, Harry had come over to tell him that their friendship would just not work out, best to just get it over with, sorry and all that. In most of them, Nick had been cutting and stoic, not attempting to put off the inevitable by sticking his head in the fridge. 

He thought he could handle not kissing Harry ever again. He just didn't think he could handle never seeing him again at all. 

But he was twenty-eight years old, nearly twenty-nine. He _had_ to be the adult here. He _had_ to just get it the fuck over with already. 

He cleared his throat, fished two Coronas from the fridge, and took the time to cut up a lime for them, as well, squishing them into the bottles methodically and licking his thumbs clean. It wasn't until he was heading out into the lounge that he realised Puppy wasn't tripping his feet anymore.

"Traitor," he breathed as he spotted her sat in Harry's arms a moment later, tail wagging. He walked up to the coffee table and silently put one of the Coronas in front of Harry.

He didn't want to sit, but he also didn't want to loom like a vampire, so he made himself park his arse in the sofa across form them while watching his own dog give her allegiance to another. Tough luck for them both, then.

"Oh, thanks," Harry said, noticing the beer, and picked it up with the hand that wasn't busy petting Nick's dog. Puppy just continued to sit in his lap, nipping at Harry's shirt. Nick might as well not even be here, really. 

He took his first sip. It lacked that particular comfort of tea, but definitely hit the spot. 

He waited.

Finally, after subduing Puppy into a completely comatose state and downing half the bottle, Harry looked up at Nick.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice hollow and distant and weirdly scared.

Nick's chest seized up. God, it was ridiculous. How could you have any expectation of a nineteen-year old world-famous popstar? Nick was worse than a teenage girl. He _knew_ better. 

"It's all right," he made himself say. He wiped a palm on the leg of his jeans. "I understand, really." He did. He didn't _like_ it. But he understood. Which, he supposed, was one sign of maturity. 

"No," Harry said, catching his eye and frowning. He looked so petulant like that. "I don't think you _do_ , actually."

Nick only had so much patience for this delightful friendship-breaking conversation, and he was all set on one course. Harry would not derail him to introduce another. _That_ was fucking unfair.

"I do, Harry," he said. "Really. Please, just –" he paused and took a long pull of his beer. "Really, I don't – expect anything from you. It's all right. All right?" 

He couldn't look Harry in the eye, so he watched Puppy breathing in and out on Harry's lap, completely unaware of any tension in the air. That was weird, right? Didn't animals know when earthquakes were coming? How come she wasn't running up to Nick and warning him of danger? 

"What are you talking about?" Harry asked, sitting up enough to disturb Puppy, who huffed unhappily but didn't even open her eyes. 

Nick was forced to look him in the face. "I'm talking about you being – you know." He waved a hand around. " _You_. You made a mistake, we _both_ did, and I get that, and I also get – I get –" He couldn't say it. He couldn't. If he was being friend-dumped right now, he'd make Harry say it for him. _That_ seemed fair.

Briefly, he heard a voice nagging at him with things like _now who's being a child?_ , and _you shagged one of your best mates, what did you expect?_ , and _how did you fall for a nineteen year old, are you out of your bloody mind?_ He shut it up as best he could.

Another – tiny, miniscule – part of him thought, _maybe you're just being a drama queen and he's not here to friend-dumb you, you great twat._

"No, you fucking _don't_." The fierceness in Harry's voice made Nick lose a bit of his footing. He frowned, waiting for Harry to clear things up for him. "It wasn't a _mistake_ for me, Jesus, Nick. Wait – was it a mistake for you? Do you regret it?"

Nick threw his hands up, nearly upsetting his beer. "What'd you think, Harry? That it's been sunshine and roses, not hearing from you? You walked out. You _left_. What am I supposed to think? We were _mates_ , and then I never bloody _heard_ from you." 

God, he was nearly shouting. He had to get a hold of himself here, because – adult. He was an adult. He could do this. 

Harry's face crumpled, and Nick realised that, no. No, he couldn't. He couldn't do this at all. He was at sea, and he had no paddleboat. He had nothing, just his own stupid broken heart. _Pathetic_ was being redefined right there in his lounge.

"I'm _sorry_ , all right?" Harry said and his voice broke. He swiped at his face angrily, and Nick hadn't even noticed – how had he not noticed? Harry was crying. 

The next moment, Puppy sat up and went for Harry's face tongue-first. 

"Oh, for – Puppy, c'mere," Nick said, then whistled, just to get her attention. "Puppy!" 

She squirmed and finally scrambled off the sofa, padding up to him with her tail between her legs. 

" _Sit_ ," he commanded. Miraculously, she obeyed. "Good girl."

"Shit," Harry breathed and buried his face in his hands. Nick's heart couldn't take much more of this. It was too much, watching Harry bloody Styles crying on his sofa and not knowing what to do about it. "God, this so stupid," Harry mumbled into his hands.

"Harry," Nick tried. "Harry, please, don't –" Don't cry, for fuck's sake, _don't cry_. 

He thought he heard Harry mumble _I'm sorry_ into his own hands. 

"Stop being sorry, I can't – I don't know what _do_ ," Nick confessed, sagging against the back of his chair and burying his own face in his hands. This was absolutely absurd. 

"I don't know how to make this all right," Harry said, and he didn't sound muffled at all, now. He sounded just a bit sniffly, but clear, and determined, somehow. Nick pulled his hands away from his own face and looked at him. Harry was biting the inside of his cheek, and his eyes were a bit pink and a bit puffy. "I don't know – I fucked up. Nick, I _fucked up_. Tell me how to make it _right_." 

Nick just watched him, feeling his heart hammering inside his chest. "You want to make it right," he said, sounding like a broken record.

"Yes," Harry replied and actually rolled his eyes, looking testy. "Why do you fucking think I came here tonight?"

"Well, I don't _know_ , Harold." Nick could be testy right back. He'd officially lost the thread of this conversation. "To say that you regretted shagging me whilst drunk one night, and you should probably not be friends with an old weirdo DJ, anyway, so thanks but no thanks?"

A massive pause hung in the air.

"What?" Harry finally said. "You thought – what?" He barely sounded like himself, all shock.

Nick was silent. Of course he thought that. Of _course_ he did. God, Harry really _was_ nineteen, wasn't he?

"Shit, Nick, you are such an arsehole," Harry breathed, staring at him with those huge eyes of his. "You are such a fucking bloody _stupid arsehole_ ," he repeated, and Nick felt his hands grip the sides of his chair. He had a moment of wanting to chuck things at Harry's head _really, really badly_. 

" _I'm_ the arsehole?" he asked, hearing his voice go up an octave. "Me?"

"For fuck's sake, I'm in _love_ with you," Harry shouted, like he hadn't heard Nick at all, and Nick's jaw promptly shut on its own, teeth clacking together. His entire body froze. He couldn't move it if he tried. 

He could only watch Harry's face, twisted angrily, watching him back. 

Finally, he made his mouth move. "Harry," he managed, then stopped. He was vaguely aware of Puppy having sat up and watching him, like she'd finally learned to respond to her bloody human and his needs. "What," he ground out. "What do you mean?" He sounded like an utter plank, but he didn't care. His brain refused to process the information it had been presented with.

"What do you think I bloody well mean, I mean, I'm in love with you, Nick," Harry replied, exasperated, sounding fucking _annoyed_ almost. "I mean, I fucked up. I fucked up, and I understand that you probably want to, like, punish me for it, but – but please, listen to me first, okay?"

Nick's skin was all goosebumps. He was aware of needing to say something here, to reassure Harry, maybe, that punishing him was the last thing Nick would ever do, least of all for being nineteen and a popstar constrained by his fame and fortune, but he could not make his throat work nor his lips move. 

He did manage a dumb nod, though, which Harry, clearly propelled by his need to spill his heart, took for encouragement and, almost coming off the sofa, bent forward with his elbows propped on his knees, hands clasped together, and spoke.

"I'd been, like, wanting to – to be with you for ages, all right, but I always, I dunno, I always chickened out," he began. "'Cause you're this, I don't know, you're –" Harry flapped his hand about. "You're amazing, all right? And I know you probably think of me like I'm a stupid kid, but you never _treat_ me like I'm a stupid kid, so I thought – I dunno, I thought, what if, right, and then we…" He paused, dipping his head, and slipped the beanie off. He ran his hand through his hair, messing up the curls. "And then I – I got scared, you know, afterwards." 

He'd grown quieter towards the end, the last part nearly a whisper, the words tumbling out almost despite himself. All Nick could do was watch it happen. 

"Because," Harry went on, "I'm not supposed to be _doing_ this, I'm not – I'm not supposed to _be_ this, despite what they say, I'm _not_. We all muck around and take the piss and pretend, but… but really, I can't, I _can't._ " His voice sounded choked back, eyes screwed shut, and all Nick wanted to do was close the distance between them, coffee table and all, and wrap his arms around this stupid, beautiful boy who was pouring his heart out to Nick like Nick mattered. 

He couldn't move. 

Harry went on after taking a deep breath. "And then – and then, I realised I was like, _ridiculously_ in love with you, and it was – it was awful, like, I hated being without you? I hated it." Harry met his gaze. "I can't – I can't _not_ be with you." 

Nick thought he would melt right into his stupid sofa, just melt right away, because Harry watching him like that was too much. It was everything.

He forgot about being frozen into his sofa just a moment ago, because the next second, he was on his knees in front of Harry, having pushed the stupid coffee table aside, and holding his face in his hands, like they were some sort of ridiculously overwrought sculpture in a ridiculously overwrought museum. He heard Harry's beer crash onto the floor, and didn't fucking care at all.

"Nick," Harry breathed, watching him, and Nick kissed him. 

He was desperate for it. He could barely remember their kiss from before, despite it being seared into his brain. He could never make out the details while torturing himself with memories, so he drank them in now. The way Harry moaned softly into his mouth, and opened up for him immediately; how full and soft his lips felt against Nick's; how he clung to Nick's t-shirt, clumsy and sweet; how his tongue against Nick's weakened Nick's entire body, making him feel like he'd collapse without Harry's grip on his shoulders. 

Harry shuddered against him, and Nick could feel his own hands clenching tightly against Harry's jaw, feeling it move under his touch. Fuck, _fuck_ , they had to stop now or get naked this moment, because he was finding that his self-control was at its breaking point.

He forced himself to pull away. They were both panting. When he looked at Harry's face, his eyes were closed, eyelashes fluttering above his cheeks. His mouth was shiny and pink. Nick had never seen anything more beautiful.

"I love you, too," he said, then shut his eyes. Well, that had just come right out, hadn't it? When he opened his eyes again, Harry was proper grinning at him, lower lip caught in his teeth. The wanker. Nick laughed despite himself and dropped his hands onto Harry's knees, sagging down. "We're such idiots, the pair of us," he sighed.

"Yeah, I guess," Harry agreed easily. "You love me?" 

Nick swatted at him and sagged until his back hit the edge of the bloody coffee table. It hurt, but he couldn't be arsed to move away. "Just said so, didn't I?"

Harry shrugged and grabbed one of Nick's hands, intertwining their fingers together and staring at them like the whole thing was science and he was revising for an exam. "I just like hearing it. Doesn't everyone?"

Nick found himself smiling down at their very complicated hands. "Not always, popstar."

"Well, that's weird," Harry said and Nick thought, God, he's young. Young, but so much more certain than Nick had ever been at nineteen. Really, he was nineteen going on twenty-six. Nick could live with that, he thought. 

Best prepare his mum, though.

He cleared his throat. "Listen, Harry… We still – you know." He paused, shuffling his thoughts like so much paper. Harry was watching him patiently, with some curiosity. Like having poured his heart out rid him of all of his demons. Like for a moment, he forgot all about the _why we shouldn't_ s when faced with the possibility of _why not_. Nick hated to remind him, but – mature adult. Only room for one of those here, he supposed. "You're still a famous popstar. How do we do this?" 

Harry frowned and ran a hand through his hair. "Shit, I dunno… Very carefully?"

"Cheeky bastard," Nick laughed and swatted at him. "You're not scared?"

"Bricking it," Harry replied promptly, and they looked at each other as they both broke into a laugh that sounded more hysterical than happy, to be honest, but Nick didn't care. He could be careful, right? 

All right, he would do his very _best_ , at least. 

"Don't mention us on the radio?" Harry suggested through laughter. "Maybe don't do shout-outs to me while I'm, like, at yours."

"Oh, _thank you_ , young Harold, for your sage advice." Nick rolled his eyes. Harry had a point, of course – Nick had a big fucking mouth. For fuck's sake, he did a shout-out to his _dog_ the other week. 

Still laughing, Harry grabbed Nick's hand again and shook it like a weirdo. "Seriously, Nick, I know we, like – we have to talk and figure it out and everything, and I, like. I know I need to talk to the lads, and call Nora for, like, damage control –"

Nick went sort of cold all over, because it wasn't like he hadn't _known_ , but hearing Harry be so casual and _concise_ about it made his hair stand on end. Jesus, what were they getting themselves into here?

"But," Harry went on, as if he hadn't noticed Nick having a tiny heart attack next to him, "Can we just get naked and shag all night, first?" 

Any words Nick had been preparing himself to say died right in his throat. Seriously, it was like a switch – that hadn't ever happened to him before. 

Harry knew this, of course, because the look he was giving Nick now was practically feral. He was smiling, but it wasn't the sweet Harry smile everybody in the world was familiar with. 

Nick's entire body went hot, and he didn't particularly care that everything showed on his face, for once. Bugger everything else. He made his creaky knees move and swayed upwards until he was tugging Harry up as well, and silently led him into the bedroom. 

"Uh, Nick, your dog –"

"Puppy," Nick commanded, not letting go of Harry's sweaty hand, and she reluctantly scrambled off his bed, where she'd apparently gone to hide until all the drama blew over, and chew on his duvet. "Out. C'mon, into the lounge," Nick told her. She obeyed a bit reluctantly, and he shut the door on her whining from the other side. 

"That was kind of hot," Harry said, laughing eyes and all. 

Nick cracked up. "What, me throwing my own dog out so we can shag is kind of hot?" He paused. "Wait, now that I hear it like that, that is pretty cool, I guess."

Harry laughed and reversed them with a bit of force until Nick's back was to his bed, feet walking backwards. Jesus, had Harry become less of a moppet in his time in America? He _had_ filled out more. The idea of Harry becoming stronger made Nick's hair stand on end. He stopped laughing.

"C'mere, popstar," he breathed and Harry went immediately. Right into Nick's arms, like they did this every day, and not once in a heartbroken blue moon. Nick kissed him again, trying for casual. He was kidding himself – this wasn't casual, it was anything but.

Stumbling, they fell onto his bed, and he felt so very perfectly, beautifully clear-headed. 

"Right," he said softly, breaking off the kiss and looking down at Harry's satisfied, flushed face. "Take your kit off."

Harry immediately scrambled up into a sitting position and was halfway through shirking off his shirt when he peered through the hem of it at Nick and said, "Did you just command me like your dog?"

"Uh," Nick said, busy watching where Harry had revealed a taut abdomen, skin golden-brown, hipbones in sharp relief. "I might have," he said, "but please don't let that stop this from, you know, happening." He flapped his hand about, hoping it would illustrate his point. "Get naked, Harry, I can't blow you till you're naked." Which wasn't strictly true, but definitely got his point across.

Harry flung his shirt off the next second and went for his jeans. Laughing, Nick attempted to help him when, somewhat expectedly, Harry's jeans got stuck around his boots, which he hadn't bothered to take off yet. Together, they managed to finally divest him of his clothing, so that Nick could roll him over and cover him with his own body, kissing the breath out of him. He did want to blow him; he wanted to do so many things. But he couldn't stop kissing him.

Not until Harry touched his face and pulled them apart enough to give Nick a smile. "What about you, you've still got clothes on."

And so he did. 

Harry wasn't so much help as hindrance in getting him out of his t-shirt and jeans, but finally Nick was completely – and somewhat, surprisingly, self-consciously – naked.

"What," he asked in between kisses, "what do you want?"

Harry shrugged, chewing on his lip, and his cheeks filled with colour. "I – I dunno. What do you want?" 

The sheer volume of stuff he wanted to do to Harry was so staggering and mind-boggling, all he could do was give Harry a quick peck and start with number one.

Sliding down Harry's body, he covered him in kisses. He was gorgeous – not even the ridiculous tattoos covering his body could conceal that. And Nick liked the birds – so he licked them first, holding onto Harry's waist, kissed them wingtip to wingtip, and in between. He took his time about it, because he _had_ the time. He wouldn't rush through this, he decided. Not _this_. 

Whenever he glanced up at Harry, Harry was watching him, mouth slightly open, eyes glazed over. His cheeks were flushed, his mouth already raw from Nick's stubble. Where Nick's belly met him, Harry was hard. One of his hands settled gently, almost hesitantly, in Nick's hair. 

Nick wound his way slowly down. Kisses turned to bites, soft at first, then harder, the ridiculous butterfly swimming in his vision. Harry's skin was smooth, the muscle beneath it tight, but it gave into Nick's teeth, and Harry's cock twitched at every bite against him. 

Fleetingly, Nick wondered where Harry has been since leaving for the States, with whom. Doing what. Who else has done this to his body, licked at it the way Nick was doing now, bit the outline of his stomach muscles, made him shiver. What if it'd been loads of people; what if it'd been none at all? Nick tried to shut the thought out of his brain.

He could have sworn he'd only paused for the smallest of moments, but above him, Harry huffed and intoned, "No playing with the extra nipples. Purely decorational. Move on now." 

Nick couldn't stop himself giggling right into Harry's belly. "How d'you know I was going to? I would never –"

"You think I didn't hear you taking the piss that one time? Feeding all of One Direction, honestly," Harry complained. "You're the worst."

Nick raised his head and met Harry's gaze. "Should I stop, then?" he asked. Harry's dick bumped against his chest.

"If you stop, I will actually hurt you. Like, put you in a proper headlock and everything." His fist clenched in Nick's hair.

Nick raised his eyebrows. "How do you – you'd never actually manage it, you know that, don't you?"

Harry rolled his eyes and pushed Nick's head down in answer. Nick, still giggling a bit, went along. 

His chin bumped Harry's cock and Nick nuzzled his hip. He didn't want to tease, really, but Harry just had such lovely hips. 

While Harry gasped a little above him, Nick let himself follow the dips and planes of them with his tongue. He landed soft bites just below the hipbones, where Harry's long legs began, licked against the grain of his soft hair. Jesus, Nick was hard himself, already, just from this, just from getting to touch Harry the way he hadn't got to the last time. 

"Nick," Harry whined, his body responding to Nick's slow teasing with a million tiny hitches, like Harry tried and failed to stop himself moving. "Nick, _please_."

Nick knew what Harry wanted, and what he had promised, but it seemed so natural to lower his head just a bit whilst he was in between Harry's thighs, then hoist them up onto his shoulders, and lick underneath. He heard Harry's gasps, then felt a hard grip in his hair. 

Nick bit the soft part of Harry's arse and followed the light trail of hair right into the hot centre of him with his tongue. 

It became pretty clear this was new to Harry. It wasn't new to Nick.

"Nick, fuck – what're you – oh – oh _fuck_ -" 

The line of Harry's body went entirely and completely tense. Somewhere in his lizard brain, Nick triumphed that, with all the shagging Harry's done in his life, Nick was the one to be first here. But he didn't want to let himself get too distracted by that, or the hard squeeze to his hair, so he stayed where he was, licking at Harry's arsehole, tasting the musk of it, feeling the weight of Harry's balls up above. 

It wasn't enough. He gripped Harry's thighs and spread them further, pushed them higher. He was frantic. Harry's noises – he couldn't get enough of the noises he was making, and he couldn't get enough of his taste. Nick licked and licked, the taste of Harry's sweat and his own spit mingling, driving him absolutely mad.

"Nick, fuck – you're – _God_ –"

Nick realised Harry had no idea what to do, as if someone touching him in one way meant he couldn't touch himself in another. He pulled away enough to say, "You can wank yourself off, love."

Harry whined but didn't go for it. The next moment, Nick felt him tense up, then Harry's voice broke and he was _coming_ , just like that, with nobody having even come close to his dick. He shuddered against Nick's mouth, his arsehole twitching, everything fucking _shaking_ with the force of it. Nick pulled away enough to take a deep breath and watch, with a certain awe, Harry's body coming down from it, twitches wracking his body, his stomach rising up and down, covered in his own come.

"Fucking hell," Nick breathed. He actually had a difficult time making words. 

Harry didn't respond. Instead, he gripped Nick's hair again, yanked, and pulled him up. "Fuck me," he told him, staring at Nick with mad eyes. "Jesus Christ, Nick, fuck me, _please_."

Nick all but swallowed his own tongue. Harry's scent was all over him, he wanted to bury himself in it, and the idea of – Jesus. He automatically looked down and watched, with even more awe, as Harry's cock twitched and grew hard again. Fucking _teenagers_.

Nick looked back up at Harry's face, his mouth feeling slack and slow. "Are you sure?" 

Harry nodded, licking his lips, his chest still going up and down, up and down. "Yes. Please, Grimmy. _Please_. I want to." He cleared his throat and added, "Want you to."

Nick wasn't going to be told more than twice. "All right," he nodded, then, unsure of how he even managed to, extricated himself from Harry and crawled up the bed to his bedside table. He felt Harry's gaze on him the entire time, conscious of his own hard-on, of Harry seeing all of him, just like this. 

Nick had to squeeze his eyes shut just for a moment.

Finally, he had the condoms and lube out on the bed next to them. Harry bit his lip and pulled Nick down into a kiss, frantic, biting, but managing to be sweet all at once. Harry fucking Styles. _Fuck_.

Nick pulled away. "Babe, you ever done this before?" he asked, trying not to sound how he felt – overprotective and crazed and nervous as hell. 

Splotches of red spread across Harry's cheeks, but he didn't look away. "I've, like – myself? I've used a toy. On myself," he said. 

Nick's hand sort of tightened on Harry's stomach. They were both sweaty already. "You have?" he asked without meaning to. 

Harry nodded. "Yeah."

"When?" Nick demanded. Why was _that_ important? It really wasn't, but he was desperate to know.

Harry's scrunched up face was _adorable_. Nick laughed a little whilst Harry shifted and hid his face in Nick's shoulder. "Last month? We were on holiday for a bit, you know, home, and I was, like – I had time," he mumbled. 

Nick could feel Harry's hot breath fan out across his own skin. It tickled, but he stopped laughing. _Last month_. 

Gently, he pushed Harry back a bit to reveal his face. This time, he met Nick's gaze, and they watched each other for a long, long moment. 

Then, Harry being Harry, his face split into a huge, shit-eating grin, and Nick smacked him lightly on his stomach and cracked up. "You're basically the worst thing to ever, _ever_ happen to me, d'you know that," he informed him. "Jesus, you _practised_ for this?"

"Might have, yeah," Harry responded, shrugging in a way that was probably meant to be nonchalant, but actually revealed just how tightly wound he was. Nick kissed him.

"All right, then," he said afterwards, voice a bit shaky, because he was fucking hard as a rock at this point, with the promise of an incredible fuck spurring him on. "Spread 'em, Styles."

Harry giggled and settled back into the sheets, doing a little shimmy as he planted his bony feet wide in the sheets, because he _had_ been put on this Earth to drive Nick mad into an early grave. 

Nick bit his lip and got ready, squeezing lube onto his fingers. It _had_ been a while since he'd fucked anyone, actually, and now the weight of _bum virgin_ had been added to his list of responsibilities. It was weird, but sort of true – he felt like Harry was giving him something to care for; _Harry_ to care for; Nick had better not fuck this one up. 

As it were.

He giggled to himself as he spread the lube between his fingers, but Harry didn't ask. He just gave Nick a happy look, as if he were in on the joke. Nick _really_ loved that about him. 

He watched Harry's smile drop off the moment Nick reached between his legs. He gripped Nick's side (which made Nick only _moderately_ self-conscious of his own lack of hard abs and sharp hips) and squeezed his eyes shut. He looked to be barely breathing.

"You've got to breathe, love," Nick told him softly. "Deep breaths. It'll get easier, I promise." He hoped; his hands were shaking a bit. Were his nails too long? No, he'd cut them two days ago. "Breathe, I've got you."

Harry appeared to relax just a little bit, his stomach rising with his breaths. Fucking popstar and his breathing exercises – of course he breathed through his diaphragm. Nick smiled to himself and got to work.

Harry was so tight. Tight and _loud_ , his voice rising with each knuckle that Nick managed to get him to. Fuck, it was hot as hell. Nick couldn't quite believe that this was happening at all, really, and kept biting his lip because he couldn't pinch himself. He was too busy finger-fucking Harry fucking Styles.

"H-how are you doing?" he managed to ask, after introducing a second finger into the proceedings, and Harry just moaned in response, his voice sounding broken, breath hitching. His face was a proper picture, his eyes squeezed shut, cheeks a blotchy red, mouth shiny with spit, tightening almost imperceptibly every time Nick moved a finger inside him. "You'll have to tell me if you're ready," Nick explained, licking his own dry lips. "You're –" Fucking tight as hell. "You have to figure it out for yourself, okay? Take your time." Nick could barely believe he was managing complete sentences, himself. 

"I'm ready," Harry said, his voice, unbelievably, lower than ever. "I think I'm ready, really," he added, once he opened his eyes and spotted Nick's expression. They'd barely got started. 

"Let's give it another minute," Nick managed, despite his cock protesting the very thought, but maybe _he_ needed another minute. 

He added more lube and introduced finger number three.

Harry nearly kicked him off the bed. 

Nick's head drooped, sweat slowly gathering at the temples, at the back of his scalp, his neck. He was burning up. Harry was – Harry was everything. His skin glistened with broken-out sweat, in patches – pooling between his pecs; at the jut of his hips; in the spot where Nick's hand met his arse; all across his ink. Everything was muffled to Nick's ears, he was swimming under water.

It wasn't until Harry pushed at Nick's hand till it slipped out of him that Nick resurfaced. 

"Shit, did that hurt?" he asked belatedly, because pulling out sort of always hurt, at least for him. 

"Fuck me, fuck me, c'mon," Harry chanted in response, and Nick was only so strong. "Want you, please, please –" Harry went on, but Nick was already grabbing a condom packet and tearing into it. His hands shook so badly. He paused for a moment until he could get himself together, then grabbed his own balls just to take the fucking edge off. It wouldn't do to give Harry the shortest fuck of his life. That'd be downright embarrassing.

When Nick opened his eyes, feeling just a little calmer and under control, Harry was staring at him. Nick's body gave an involuntary shudder, because – that _stare._ He wondered if you had to be in love with Harry, or just human, for that stare to pierce you like that.

Jesus Christ, he was turning into a bloody Romantic poet here – all sorts of wrong. 

Nick shook it off and nodded at Harry. "You ready, babe?"

Harry scrambled backwards and produced a pillow, stuffing it haphazardly under his arse. Nick couldn't stop his eyebrow from going up. "You sure you've not done this before?" he asked. 

Harry grinned, the cheeky bastard. "Not from this end, all right? Now, come _on_ , I'm fucking dying for it."

Well, that was explicit, Nick thought. Then he made himself move forward.

It took a bit of maneuvering to get himself situated, Harry's grabby hands all over his body being a bit of a hindrance and a distraction, and then Harry was wrapping those long gorgeous legs of his around Nick's waist and pressing him forward, gaze on Nick's the entire time. Nick dropped his head and reached down until he could line himself up.

The moment he slipped in seemed to last for a small eternity. Then Harry's voice broke on his gasp, and Nick watched, mesmerized, as Harry threw his head back, veins on his neck standing out, skin shiny with new sweat. Nick started to shake. 

Then he moved.

Slowly, oh so slowly, he made his hips rock forward, allowing Harry to adjust to it anew each time. It felt like a long while before he felt Harry's nails dug into the skin of his back, and he thought he needed that, an anchor to keep him grounded, keep him from coming. 

When he was all the way in, and Harry was clinging to him with every limb he had, Nick started to fuck him. He tried to keep his eyes open, to catch sight of Harry's gaze on him, which sent shiver after shiver down his skin, but he couldn't keep it up. This felt too fucking amazing. This felt _too fucking good_ , Harry's tight arse clenched around his dick, his dick buried _inside Harry_ \- Nick knew if he kept watching, he wouldn't last, so he shut his eyes. 

He shut his eyes and fucked Harry, trying for slow at first, but he couldn't stop himself from speeding up, chasing the feel of Harry clenching around him with each rock forward, more, he wanted _more_ , he needed _more_.

"Fuck - _Nick_ -" Harry said, _sobbed_ , really, his heels tucked right up against Nick's arse. " _Fuck._ "

"Harry –" Nick opened his eyes long enough to see Harry's face, mouth raw from kissing, eyes shut tight, eyebrows drawn. It was like fucking Michaelangelo's bloody David, he was so gorgeous. Nick didn't even care how ridiculous he felt, because _this_ felt too bloody _good_. "You can – you can touch yourself," he managed to tell Harry, but Harry shook his head.

"N-no, can – can come like this – wanna come like this," Harry whispered.

" _Jesus_." Nick switched angles so he could get at Harry's mouth. It wasn't a kiss so much as sharing breath and spit and tongues, but Harry responded to it, anyway, clenching even tighter around Nick, all of him wrapped round all of Nick. Nick thought that he might very well just lose his mind altogether. Radio One might need to find a new Breakfast Show host because they would discover him in the arms of a lithe young popstar, fucked to death. 

He shook his head to clear it, because that was a morbid sort of thought that didn't belong in this bed, and groaned. He was fucking close, but he was determined to get Harry there first. He switched angles again, sitting back, until Harry cried out and his eyes flew open.

"Fuck – fuck, _Nick_ , this is –" he gasped.

Nick nodded; he knew. He did it again, and again, fucked Harry until he could see Harry's dick jump against his stomach – dark, hard, _huge_ , still covered in his own come. He longed to wrap his hand around it, wank him off, but Harry hadn't wanted it, so Nick just kept on fucking him, and fucking him, hands clasped around Harry's thighs until he felt Harry's pulse jump – and wasn't that just fucking incredible – and Harry threw back his head, coming with a shockingly silent but still gut-wrenching gasp. He striped his already messy stomach with it, pulse after pulse, and shuddered, clenching around Nick's cock, his hands fisted in the pillow above him. 

Nick stuttered to a halt. "Harry," he whispered, his voice totally shot. "D'you –"

"Keep – keep going," Harry choked out. "Please, _please_ , c'mon –"

Nick did. He bent Harry in half, pinned him to the bed with his body, and lost control. He fucked him hard, fast, his face hid in the crook of Harry's shoulder, his heart hammering so hard, he thought he would burst with it. 

When he felt it hit him, it was almost a shock – hadn't he always been fucking Harry? Wasn't this just his life from now on? – and he pulled back enough to catch Harry's gaze. And then shut his eyes, and he came, shaking uncontrollably, pulsing inside Harry, voice cracking, his trembling arms barely able to hold him up. 

When he was done, he just held himself there, somehow unwilling to open his eyes or move at all. But then, Harry probably _needed_ him to move. 

Slowly, Nick made himself do just that, until Harry's feet landed back on the bed, and then Nick gripped the edge of the condom with one hand, the other hand resting on the lowest part of Harry's belly, and pulled out. Harry hissed. Nick petted him until it subsided.

When he managed to divest himself of the condom, he fell sideways onto the bed and floated in fucked-out oblivion for a moment. His heart was beating a wild rhythm inside his chest, and it felt as if his veins had been replaced with messy feelings, relief and worry and joy all nagging at his insides, flowing through his skin. 

Harry pulled him out of it. "Hey," he whispered, and Nick opened his eyes. "Still with me?"

Nick grinned. "Yeah. You?"

Harry probably caught the full meaning there, because his eyebrows drew together and softly, he reached out and laid a hand on Nick's chest. "Yeah. I'm – I'm sorry. About last time."

Nick didn't want to think about it. It felt like a speck, in fact, completely washed out by the ocean of the past hour. "I know," he said. "I am, too."

They were silent for a moment, until Harry pulled on his hand and rolled Nick over on top of him. He was smiling again. It was hard to keep Harry's smiles at bay for long. He was always happy about something or other. 

Nick settled in between Harry's thighs – his new favourite place – and leaned in for a soft kiss. 

Harry raised his hand and caressed the dip beneath Nick's mouth, smiling a non-focused sort of smile. "Your face looks weird when you come," he said. "I like it."

Nick must have made a face at _that_ because Harry added hurriedly, "I said I liked it! It's not bad weird, it's just - you know. Sort of. Weird. Like you." He grinned in a way that Nick should not have been affected by, but really was. Pathetic.

He rolled his eyes and sagged down onto his side, unable to look away from Harry's face. "Cool story, babe," he said.

Harry's smile got impossibly wider. "Thanks!" he said brightly. "I'm really good at those, you know." 

"You should look into being a radio DJ, you might do all right," Nick replied and then they just laughed like idiots for five minutes straight.

**Seven**

"Oi! Nick! Nicholas! Wakey-wakey!" Pause. " _Grimmy!_ " 

Nick groaned and burrowed deeper under his pillow, the line of drool trailing in his wake. Disgusting. 

What was happening? Was the flat on fire? 

He became aware not only of Harry's obnoxiously awake voice but of Puppy's barking and the scuttling of her little nails on the floor. More like the chalkboard, for how it made Nick want to spork himself in the eye.

He considered playing dead. Surely Harry would leave him alone, right?

"Niiiiiiiiiiiiick," Harry whinged, and Nick nearly jumped out of his skin. He hadn't felt Harry burrowing close or anything, but his voice had sounded directly in Nick's ear, along with his warm breath, which tickled something awful. 

"Whatdyouwant," Nick mumbled, finally lifting the pillow off his face and peering at Harry's face – Harry's nose, really, and a bit of his mouth, because he was that fucking close to Nick's face – through one eye. "It's a bloody Saturday morning. Are you the devil?" he asked. It seemed a reasonable question, honestly.

"Noooooo, it's not just a _Saturday morning_ ," Harry responded, mimicking Nick, because he was the actual worst. His breath was minty-fresh, too, which was another advantage he had over Nick, who thought something might have died in his mouth since last night. "It's our holiday! We're on holiday, remember?"

Of course Nick remembered. "Yes, Harold. I remember. Hence the sleeping in," he said. Again, reasonably.

"It's bloody ten o'clock, and you promised me a picnic in the park," Harry whinged again, hands gripping Nick's shoulder and shaking. "Come onnnn, we've got no picnic food, we have to do it properlyyyyyy." 

Nick resigned himself to his fate and decided to be the bigger person. Harry had kept him up till three bloody in the morning, which was not a time Nick had experienced in a while, really. But Harry had wanted to play stupid games and get drunk on wine spritzers, of all things, and then he got naked and – Nick couldn't think of a better start to a holiday, really, except that more sleep would definitely have been helpful.

"Harold," he sighed, and flopped over onto his back. That had been a tactical error, because the next moment, Harry hoisted himself over Nick and straddled him right over the duvet. He was wearing his pants, necklace, and absolutely nothing else.

Maybe Nick was more awake now. 

"Nicholas," Harry said, his face attempting some sort of serious and entirely un-Harry-like expression. Failing, of course. "I'll make you tea. Do it up right, and everything. Bacon sarnies?"

Nick quirked his eyebrow. "What sort of tea?"

"Something disgustingly sweet and fruity?" Harry suggested, cheeks dimpling in a way that made Nick want to come all over his face. Nick made a noise. "Kidding, kidding – Tetley's, what else?"

"Biscuits?" Nick asked hopefully.

"It's _breakfast_ ," Harry said, rolling his eyes. 

"It's our _holiday_ ," Nick pointed out and cleared his throat. Harry cocked his head at him, then leaned down until their noses were touching. Nick wanted to tell him to get back a little or Nick's breath was going to knock him unconscious, but the very act of opening his mouth would actually illustrate the point. He stayed silent and waited to see what Harry would do. When Harry went straight for a morning kiss, Nick tried to resist, but Harry gripped his jaw and kissed him harder.

"Stop it," Harry mumbled. "I don't care about your morning breath."

Nick sighed a put-upon sigh. "Let me clean my teeth or something, first," he tried, but Harry just shook his head and then jumped up, his bony knees knocking Nick's legs all over in the process. 

"Tea first – that's the holiday rule," Harry informed him. Goodness, he had a bit of a boner going, actually. Nick hadn't noticed till now. "Then shower, then teeth cleaning, then we're going to the shops for picnic food. Aimee and Pix have already texted twice."

Nick ignored every single thing to have come out of Harry's mouth and grabbed his hand, tipping him back onto the bed. "Sex first. Looks like your lad's requiring some attention."

Harry made a face like he was actually _weighing his options_ , but in the end, he didn't let Nick down. "Cool. Okay. We can switch it up, I guess," he said. He was already stripping off his briefs and toeing a protesting Puppy out of the room, shutting the door on her whining in a practised move.

"Smart boy," Nick told him and then shut Harry up for a sublime half hour of truly intense holiday shagging. 

Maybe this time. Maybe this time, he'd got lucky.

***

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] An Abridged Sexual History of Nick Grimshaw: A Love Story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086315) by [ofjustimagine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofjustimagine/pseuds/ofjustimagine)




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